


Don’t Make Any Sudden Moves

by Catchclaw



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Angst, Cockles, Denial, Doubt, First Time, M/M, Sex at a Con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-09
Updated: 2013-01-09
Packaged: 2017-11-24 05:42:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/631059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jensen tells himself that he hates Misha: that he's sandpaper on Jensen's skin, a blueborne rash behind Jen's eyes that he can never scratch. Hate. That's what it is. What it has to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don’t Make Any Sudden Moves

I told myself I hated him. That he was sandpaper on my skin, a blueborne rash behind my eyes that I could never scratch.

That’s why I jumped when he came into a room or met my eye on set or laughed too loud at lunch.

Hate. That’s what it was.

He made me feel anxious and ready, like a snake set on edge by his own rattle. 

When I said something to Jay, or tried, he just sighed and patted me on the head.

“You don’t like change, dude. That’s all. You’ll get over it.”

Played it off like it was nothing, like it was me being moody.

And it wasn’t like he treated me special. Was an extra full-on jerk to me or something. No. Misha, he was everybody’s personal Jesus. A wise man with access to knowledge well beyond the rest of us that he was only too happy to share.

But everyone else seemed good with it. Seemed to like it, even. Liked him. So I shut up about it and just used that hate for my own purposes. Shoved the feeling under my gut and let it come out in Dean’s eyes, in the lines of his body, the curve of his hand on a gun.

Seemed to work. Nobody but me was the wiser. And everything was fine.

Even if I went home at night exhausted, had to come up with a whole new encyclopedia of excuses to chase Jay away so I could put cotton in my ears and sing my hate to sleep.

And it was fine. Easy, even, because Jay is many things, but observant? Still enough to notice the trees for the forest and the blades of grass? He is not.

But then sometimes, neither am I.

I didn’t hear Misha behind me. Didn’t see him at that hotel in Denver until it was too late.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” I barked, my voice too loud in the fucking marble lobby. 

He blinked, heavy blue amused.

“Nice to see you, too,” he said. “Schedule changed. Shit worked out. So I’m here.” He did a two-step with his suitcase. “You want I should go?”

“What? No,” I snarled. “I don’t care. You’re here. Fine.”

He laughed and pointed. “Coffee’s that way. Get a venti. You need it.”

I ignored him. Hid behind my glasses and ordered a grande just for spite.

Spent the weekend in character, the one who can deal with the public without blushing. Without getting caught up in his own head or doing shots with Speight between panels. 

This character, though. He also hated Misha. But with a little less heat than me, the real me, so that helped. I just did the Dean thing and pushed that angst out through my chest, through the microphone and into our fans, and everything turned out fine.

Nobody but me was the wiser.

And I had my shit together. I did. Didn’t call Jay. Not even once.

I handled it fine.

On Saturday night, the end, my character and I hid in my room and synched ourselves back to one over a bottle of Makers Mark and some crappy college football.

Was good. 

Until some asshole started banging on the door.

My character opened it, against my better judgment.

“Hi,” Misha said, bright. False flag as fuck. “Can I come in?”

The Makers, it was too polite, raised right, because it held the door open before I could say no.

He gave the room a once over, like he had any damn say over my housekeeping. Then did the same to me.

“So. You gonna tell me what’s going on, or do I get to choose?” he said.

“What?”

He sighed and leaned back against the couch. Crossed his arms and shook his head, framed in a flashy halo by the Oregon Ducks on TV.

“Jensen. Let me put this in terms that you and your booze will understand: What. In the fuck. Is wrong. With you? Because you’ve been a bitch all weekend—even more than usual, I might add. Is that Jay’s not here? You miss your better half?”

It took me a second to process that, and another to stop myself from punching him smug.

“You’re an asshole,” I growled. “Get out.”

He made this dismissive little flip with his hand, like my words were water. “I know this isn’t your thing, ok, but there’s no need for you to fly 1000 miles to be a dick. You could’ve done that just fine at home. Or do you need an audience to really hone that craft?”

“What the _hell_ !” I shouted, loud. Way fucking too. “Where the fuck do you get off saying that kind of shit to me?”

He laughed. The little bastard _laughed_ at me and took a step right through my personal space.

“You can’t expect the whole world to treat you like fine china, Jen,” he purred, one finger fast in my chest. “I’m not here to be your bubble wrap and break your every fall.”

“Oh my god. Fuck you, you self-righteous asshole!” I shoved him hard, kicked his shin towards the door. “Get out!”

He stumbled, broke the easy cool on his face. Caught himself against the wall.

Looked right at me for too long. Made me look right back.

“Why are you shouting?” he said, quiet. Quiet quiet.

“I don’t know!” I bellowed. “I don’t fucking know, alright?”

He just looked at me, still. His face, his body. Still. 

So I couldn’t be.

I took two steps and grabbed, slammed him back into the wall, and he was willing. Went willing into sheetrock and paint with only his head to break the fall.

But still.

I held his shoulders, my hands tight and hot. Cotton and bone beneath. My face shaking, my eyes afraid to find his. So I closed them. Made it easier to breathe.

“Please,” I said, blood red. “Please. Stop. I can’t.”

I felt him shift a little under my thumbs. His breath slow and even over my chin.

“What?” he whispered. “What do you want me to stop?”

I shook my head, squeezed, shuddered. Refused to think.

To say.

Couldn’t say:

Stop looking at me.

Stop sneaking into my head.

Stop staring over my shoulder even when we’re miles apart.

Stop unwinding my heart and put it back the way you found it already. The way you took it, the way I handed it over without thinking, and now I’d like it back, please, because I can’t let you hang on. 

Stop making me want to live without my heart if that means it’s in your hands.

His hand on my hip. The other on my face.

Still.

Something came out of my mouth, wet, and he caught it with his thumb. Tapped it back between my lips and lingered there, his skin sweet on my tongue.

He made a little sound and gave me another, and tasting him, holding him in my teeth, was easier than resisting. Burned me down to the simple, the plain. 

“Stop,” he moaned, his hand on my hip digging. Holding. Pulling. “Stop. Please. I can’t—”

My words in his voice hurt. Hurt me. 

I yanked his hand from my face and took my words back, mouth for mouth. 

My fingers from his shoulder to his neck, his hair. Twisting, catching, taking.

His fists in my shirt. His tongue curled over mine. His head back in sheetrock and paint.

I wasn’t angry anymore. 

I let him lick the maybes from my teeth, let him roar over the sirens in my head, let him drown out my fear with his fingers, his certainty, his wet hot whore of a mouth.

Let him turn me, brace me, stop me fast against the wall. 

Let him keep me from falling.

He dropped his kiss into my throat, his hands behind my back.

My hips, they kicked up into his. A jolt right down my spine.

He bit my neck, my ear, got my breath to hitch and my hips to twitch again. This time, his hand was there to catch me.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he hissed, a smile on my jaw. “You’re wound so goddamn tight. Always a snake about to strike.”

And all I could do was rattle. 

Moan and rub myself against his palm.

He got the zipper and pulled. His fist over me and tugged. His claws in my heart and held on.

I kissed him, my lips working over his name, my fingers caught in his hair, until he wouldn’t let me, until he wasn’t there. Until his mouth fell over my cock and down. Until I found his hair again and held him tight, my head back and my mouth making too much goddamn noise and the sound of his groans digging their way out of my skin and I screamed something like a smile and came all the way uncoiled, lost everything to him. Happy. So goddamn happy.

I didn’t know who I was, for a minute. Because I am many things. But happy isn’t one.

He found his way back to my face and kissed me sloppy, pushy, grabbed my hand and shoved it into his crotch, my name desperate in his mouth.

No false flags flying now.

I got his dick with one hand and held his head with the other. Made him lick my fingers damp before I let him go, let him fuck my fist while I sucked on his tongue, and when he came, he went still again. Still and still, his eyes right inside of mine.

“Jensen,” he breathed, eager and anxious and mine. “Jesus. Finally.”

I watched him fall apart, his body a beautiful goddamn mess against me.

“I hate you,” I whispered.

He smiled into my cheek.

“Yeah,” he said. Soft. Still. “I know.”

**Author's Note:**

> I sat down to write fluffy Destiel and this came out instead. I worry about myself sometimes.


End file.
